


One Factor

by Crazy_panda_25



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, BAMF John Watson, Blood warning but not too explicit, Could be treated as a pre-relationship Johnlock, Friendship, Gen, Gun Violence, Hurt John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Rated mainly for some swearing, Sherlock has feelings okay?, Violence, cases, panicing, your choice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 14:17:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17024220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazy_panda_25/pseuds/Crazy_panda_25
Summary: Sherlock wouldn't admit it but he wishes they waited for Lestrade.The air around them in the warehouse is unusually cold for summer, though that is completely irreverent to the current predicament Sherlock finds himself in. Said predicament involves two guns and two men standing face to face, guns trained on one another.William Lynce, their murderer if Sherlock is right (and he usually is), smiles, too much teeth, doesn't reach his eyes, "what a predicament we find ourselves in. Don't you think Mr Sherlock Holmes?"





	One Factor

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, everyone! I hope you enjoy this short fanfiction. It's my first one in this fandom and I'm suitably nervous to post it. Regardless, Thank you for reading and I really hope you like it.
> 
> Disclaimer: I definitely don't own Sherlock Holmes, original or otherwise. That right goes straight to Arthur Conan Doyal and the BBC Sherlock team.

Sherlock wouldn't admit it but he wishes they waited for Lestrade.

The air around them in the warehouse is unusually cold for summer, though that is completely irreverent to the current predicament Sherlock finds himself in. Said predicament involves two guns and two men standing face to face, guns trained on one another.

William Lynce, their murderer if Sherlock is right (and he usually is), smiles, too much teeth, doesn't reach his eyes, "what a predicament we find ourselves in. Don't you think Mr Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock doesn't reply. Something needs to happen to tilt this balance their way, where on earth is John? The handgun is heavy in his outstretched hand, levelled at Lynce chest. His eyes glide over the other man, pin pointing everything he can about him.

 

34, divorced (tan line of a ring on ring finger), right handed, unsteady (hand shaking), unpracticed to handling a gun (grip on the handle tight, nervous).

 

Sherlock watches as Lynce steady's his arm with his left hand, keeping the gun pointed at Sherlock's head. His smile turning into more of a growl, as he moves his weight from foot to foot. Waiting for someone? Bit not good.

"Last chance, drop your weapon," Lynce demands, tilting his head to the side, green eyes sharp.

One corner of Sherlock's mouth lifts, "I'll pass on that. You aren't going to shoot. Even if you did your hand's shaking so unlikely the bullet will actually hit your target, in this case me."

"Let's see shall we. Pitch!" Lynce drawls, turning his head towards the door while keeping the gun raised.

A tall stocky man, Pitch, strolls in on command, an all too familiar man pinned to his chest by an arm around his neck. John. Damn. Pitch pushes John to the floor, a gun against the back of his head.

"Maybe you are right, Mr Holmes, I won't shoot you. But him?" he motions at the taller man with a grin, "he'll shoot your friend, if you don't. Drop. Your. Gun."

"Sherlock, don't-," John protests, loudly, Pitch grabs him roughly again, pressing the end of his gun to his chest. Sherlock doesn't miss the brief flash of fear on the doctor's eyes before it's gone again, a steely glare replacing it.

 

Sherlock sets his jaw, glaring daggers in the man's direction. Safe to say if looks could kill, Pitch would be dead on the spot, not that Sherlock would mind right now. Sherlock swallows, immediately places the gun down in front of him. It's not worth the risk to protest. Humans can do dangerous things when antagonised and Sherlock won't...can't risk John.

"Good," Lynce says, stepping forward casually to take the gun, "I'm pleasantly surprised, I though it would take more persuasion. Obviously Dr Watson means a lot to you."

John sighs, clearly agitated, "you've got us unarmed, what now?"

"Patience, patience. Got somewhere else to be, Dr Watson?" Lynce asks, clicking the safety of his gun off and turning to John. John briefly meets Sherlock's eye over his shoulder, inclining his head subtly. For the first time, Sherlock notices the sizeable gash on his friends head.

Sherlock nods back, moving his hands to clasp behind his back. When he's sure neither of the men are focusing on him, Sherlock, discreetly, sends a text to Lestrade to notify him of their location and current problem.

 

Moving his attention back to John, an unidentified feeling settling in his chest. He needs to get them out of here before everything goes wrong.

John is glaring at Lynce, his face masking any previous fear he might have felt. The bravery of the soldier ever present in his body language, despite the small drop of blood running down the edge of his face from his head injury.

"Nothing to say? Amazing how little people have to say when a gun is pointed at them. What about you, Sherlock? Anything to say?" Lynce inquires, waving his gun around.

"I've got something to say, stop waving that thing around so much. You'll end up shooting yourself or your friend here, who's grip is admirable but unwelcome," John bites out, wincing when the grip on his left arm tightens.

Lynce looks at the gun in mock shock, "oh, sorry. Is this better?" He levels the gun to Sherlock's head.

John drops his eyes, glaring at the floor, but stays silent. Good, Sherlock thinks, might reduce the likelihood that they'll kill us before the police get here. Sherlock notes the tension in the muscles around his friend's eyes, shoulder wound straining, obviously in pain. He clenches his jaw, anger festering in his mind.

 

Sherlock looks Lynce straight in the eyes, time to adress the reason they're even here in the first place, "why did they have to die, Mr Lynce? Maybe they found out about your drug addiction, most likely they were getting TOO close to your wife. They were all her friends, had been for years, so why were you SO worried? Ah, you thought you didn't deserve her and they'd bring her to her sense. In hindsight, they were spot on. No, you're divorced, newly so. Estranged wife then. Likely they were apart of the break up, maybe even the cause. Or you thought so at least. So that why you are here, but who's he? Friend? Hired help? Brother? Too young to be older family member."

 

Lynce's knuckes have turned white on the handle of the handgun, "that's irrelevant. Ever the show off know-it-all, Mr Holmes, but you've forgotton, who's holding all the cards here...."

A distant sound of sirens cuts through the air, William Lyne exchanges a panicked glance with Pitch. Sherlock mentally berates Lestrade for giving away their plan, meeting John's eyes briefly. John exhales softly, his tightly gripped shoulder clearly causing him a lot more pain than he's displaying, but he nods the go-ahead at Sherlock. They need to act, and fast.

 

After a short beat of silence, John ducks down, the sudden unexpected movement causing the grip Pitch had on him to break. Sherlock watches as his friend, skilfully, takes Pitch's legs from under him making him hit the floor, hard. The handgun slipping from the man's grip, sending it across the floor, away from them to Sherlock's relief. Lynce doesn't seem to register what's happening until it's too late. John cuts off Pitch's airway momentarily, sending him into unconscious almost immediately. Sherlock makes a mental note to inquire about how and where he learnt those moves.

Before Sherlock has a chance to get to and disarm Lynce, an echoing gun shot fills the air.

 

Bang!

 

Suddenly everything is silent. Sherlock recovers first, not daring to look towards where the gun shot had fired, surging forwards to quickly neutralise the threat. The gun drops to the floor with a dull clatter when Sherlock lunges at Lynce, fist connecting to his jaw, mercilessly. Something inside him has snapped, John's hurt or worst...

He keeps hitting the man until his fist smarts and he can feel the man fall still under him, alive but unconscious. His head is spinning as he drags Lynce's arms behind his back and handcuffing him, just in case, much like he's seen Lestrade do time and time again. Sherlock's mind is working on autopilot, barely even registering the slight crack of the man's shoulder as it's pulled out of its socket.

 

When he's done, Sherlock turns his head towards his friend. John's ragged breaths are the only sound inside the warehouse. He's alive, Sherlock notes with fleeting relief strolling over to his injured friend.

John's eyes are scrunch up with pain as his pale hands clutch a blood drenched piece of material. Ripped off sleeve of his shirt, Sherlock's brain supplies. His eyes open when Sherlock crouches down beside him.

"Sherlock..." John chokes out, a drop of crimson blood sliding from the corner of his mouth towards his chin. Not good.

"John? John, you're going to have to tell me what I can do," Sherlock states, urgently, reaching out with his sleeve to wipe the blood away but only resulting in it smudging across his chin.

John swallow, breathing uneven, "ring 999 or Mycroft, someone needs..."

Sherlock pulls his phone from his pocket, dialling Mycroft's number off by heart, then holding his phone to his ear, heart pounding in his chest.

"Hello, brother mine. To what do I owe the honour?" Mycroft's voice comes from the other end of the phone, a mocking smirk clear in his voice.

"John...John's been shot. Mycroft I don't...please just do something!" Sherlock rambles, desperately, barely even registering his brothers mockery prior.

"Turn your phone tracker on, Sherlock. We'll be there as soon as we can," Mycroft informs him, any previous mocking gone, replaced with his businesslike tone.

Sherlock doesn't answer clicking the phone off and returning his focus to John again. A question forms in his lips but John answers before he has to say it

"Scarf...stem the blood flow."

Clumsily, Sherlock pulls his scarf from around his neck and hesitantly holds it against the bleeding wound. He doesn't know whether he's pressing too hard or not hard enough, he should know. His brain is failing him, it's just...gone blank. Is this what shock feels like? He doesn't know what to do.

"Harder," John chokes out, eyes closed against the agonising pain, "it won't stop the...fuck that hurts."

Sherlock almost lets go of the scarf at the expression of hurt his friend displays, but John's hands press down on top of his. A reassuring gesture. What would John be reassuring him for? He's not the one with a bullet through his chest, he's not...

"Sherlock...it's alright...it's going to be alright," John murmurs, his voice is weak, fading, Sherlock never wants to here it like this ever again.

"Isn't that...what I'm meant to be saying?" Sherlock answers, smiling weakly when John huffs out a faint laugh, "where in hell is Lestrade? I messaged him ages ago."

John shakes his head, slowly, forcing his eyes open to look into Sherlock's eyes, "he'll be here....always comes when you call."

"Not quick enough. He should be...damn it John, I don't know what to do," Sherlock exclaimes, he can feel his hands shaking against John's cold ones.

"You're doing....good. Just...keep me awake. Keep talking, I need...," John lets out a gasp of pain, cutting himself off, his eyes screwing shut.

Sherlock searches John's face with his eyes, desperately, "what, John, what do you need?"

"...talk. About anything. Tell me...what I should have put in my...last blog entry," John manages to get out, his teeth gritted against the pain.

Sherlock doesn't know what to say, his mind whirling. What had the last case even been about? He'd think that he'd deleted it, if his brain isn't struggling to formulate a solid thought anyway.

"I can't... I don't know what it was about but you probably scarcely included anything of actually importance. You do tend to romanticise our cases, make them more about me than the actually case," Sherlock says, his voice feels scratchy, like he's talking through a lump in his throat.

John swallows with difficulty, opening his eyes again. A lead weight seems to drop in Sherlock's stomach at the sight of the doctor's pain-filled blue eyes. John lets out a stuttering breath, before his eyes fall closed again. Something about the motion seems so final that Sherlock doesn't even resister the sound of police cars pulling up outside and familiar voices shouting orders to one another.

"No, John, don't fall asleep. You need...I can't...John, please, you have to stay awake," Sherlock pleads, urgently with an underlying tone of desperation, he can feel John's blood seeping through his scarf and onto his fingers. It's making him feel sick.

"I'm...sorry. I'm so...tired...Sherlock," John barely whispers, his breath weak against Sherlock's face as he leans closer to hear his friend, "you need...to be okay, promise me...no matter what...you'll-"

"Don't, John, don't even..." Sherlock snaps, lips pressing together in a hard line, "just stop thinking like that. You're going to be okay. Don't you dare think you're allowed to die on me."

"Sorry...Sherlock I-" John's voice cuts out, falling into the depths of unconsciousness.

"No..no, John! Don't...please...I can't. You can't do this to me," Sherlock begs, voice breaking as any strength he had before crumbles to the ground around him.

"Sherlock," Lestrade's voice comes from behind him, his hand tentatively coming to rest on his shoulder, "you need to come with me. An ambulance is here, John will be in safe hands, okay?"

Sherlock shakes his head rapidly, tears falling down his pale cheeks unchecked, "I can't let him... Lestrade, I-you can't let him die."

"He'll be in good hands, I promise you. Just give the paramedics some room so they can help John or he'll die," Lestrade explains, jumping slightly when Sherlock scrambles up and away from John's prone form immediately allowing the medics (not usual call out paramedics so no doubt something to do with Mycroft) to work.

 

Sherlock backs away until his back hit the wall behind him, before sliding down it to the floor. Silent tears are still sliding down his cheek but Lestrade suspects Sherlock is entirely unaware of this. He looks broken, completely and utterly shattered. In the years he's known Sherlock, he's seen the raven haired man in all kinds of states but never, not once, like this. Never looking as though the bottom has just fallen out of his world.

Lestrade crouches down in front of the detective, "Sherlock, you should get checked out..."

"It's not my blood, none of it's mine," Sherlock dismisses, his voice distant, eyes trained on the medics as they hurry to steam the bleeding, "William Lynce, that's the man we were looking for. He was the murderer and...shot John."

Lestrade nods, making a short handed note of this in his notebook, "I thought as much. You don't need to do this now..."

"What else can I do? I couldn't...I can't help John," Sherlock snaps, blood soaked hands clenched together in a vice like grip, "the other man, Lynce called him Pitch. Unclear where he comes into this, likely a hired help. John knocked him out."

"I suppose you dealt with William, did quite a number on his face too as I've seen," Lestrade comments, offering him a small smile, "broken nose, jaw bone likely shattered.."

Sherlock's eyes turn hard as he moves his gaze to Lestarde's face, "he deserved worse. If John wasn't...I wouldn't have stopped, Greg. If he'd killed John, he wouldn't have got out of this room alive."

Lestrade wouldn't, not for one second, doubt that statement. He's known the detective for many years, seen him destroy himself with drugs, throw himself head first into graphic cases like he craves the violent scenes, deduce ever member of Scotland Yard's team with cruel accuracy tone holding nothing but scorn, but never has he seen Sherlock look so, so furious at the mere mention of another human being. There's burning fire in his ice cold eyes. Anger. Resentment. But most of all fear, clear, unguarded fear.

Sherlock's eyes are now trained on the retreating ambulance containing his friend.

Lestrade nods his head, ignoring the rare use of his name as he pushes himself to his feet, "Come on, I'll take you to the hospital."

He holds out his hand for the detective, who hesitates before taking it, hauling himself to his feet.

 

******

 

The ride to the hospital is made in silence. Nothing to say to make anything better. Sherlock taps his knees with his fingertips in an uneven rhythm as he glares out of the window. His face is pale, even paler than normal, making his red raw eyes stick out in contrast. Lestrade feels an familiar need to offer comfort and support to the mortified man, making a mental note to punch Anderson if he even so much as implies that Sherlock Holmes is emotionless ever again. He prays to any god that may, or may not, be above, to let John live. For Sherlock's sake if not for John's.

"John's a fighter, he'll be alright, Sherlock," Lestrade breaks the silence, glancing sideways at the other man.

Sherlock just glares at him, "what makes you feel the need to reassure me of that fact? I know John is a fighter and he'll fight this. He simply cannot die, I won't allow it."

It's not that simple, Lestrade wants to say but he has a feeling Sherlock knows that. He knows that he has no say in this and he despises it. That, Lestrade can understand.

When they arrive, Mycroft is waiting for them in the waiting room, a grim expression on his face.

Sherlock gives his brother a hard look, a question in his guarded gaze.

"Doctor Watson's been taken straight into surgery, they'll inform us of any new information when possible," Mycroft informs him, nodding in acknowledgement of Lestrade, "as it stands, the outlook is unknown."

Sherlock nods, sinking down into one of the uncomfortable seats, head in his hands.

Mycroft surveys his younger brother in silence for a few moments, his brow furrowed in scarcely hidden concern. Lestrade takes a seat beside the detective, sending off a quick text to Sally to inform her of the situation.

"Sherlock," Mycroft says, breaking the silence between them, "go and get yourself cleaned up, you'll be the first to know if there's any news."

Sherlock yanks his blood-stained hands away from his face, sending a furious glare at his brother, "No, Mycroft. I'm staying here until I know John is...is on the mend, okay? Why are you even still here, don't you have some war to start or something?"

Mycroft taps his umbrella on the floor, shaking his head, "I'm merely concerned about your well being, brother mine, and though you deem me incapable of emotions, I do hold Dr Watson in high regard."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, agitated, "I'm sure he'll be honoured to know that. I'll be sure to pass on your kind words to him as soon as possible."

Mycroft tuts, shifting one is feet, "Don't be so childish, Sherlock. Some of Dr Watson's sarcasm seems to have rubbed off on you."

"Just leave, Mycroft. There's little you will gain from your time here or are you about to give me a lecture on how caring is a disadvantage and I should stop making that mistake?" Sherlock inquires, his voice has lowered considerably, he looks torn between punching his brother and bursting out crying, "if you are save it for some other time, I'm not in the mood."

Mycroft swallows, staring at the floor momentarily to formulate what he's going to reply, "I'm not going to...."

 

"Sorry to disturb but are you here for Dr John Watson," a young nurse inquires, checking over her notes, cutting Mycroft's sentence short.

Sherlock stands up, instantly in front of the woman, "Yes, was there any complications? Any small cause for concern? Is he okay? Where is he? Can I see him?"

The young nurse looks startled, stepping backwards subtly.

"Sorry about him, any news?" Lestrade cuts in, ignoring the glare Sherlock sends his way.

"Yes...eh..." She starts, glancing over her notes once again, before offering them a smile, "the gunshot wound your friend suffered was quite severe, it cut through the tissue in his chest, but luckily missed any vital organs. During the journey here, his heart did stop briefly-," Lestrade feels Sherlock stiffen beside him, "-but they managed to quickly get it running again. We managed to successfully remove the bullet and stem any internal bleeding quickly without encountering any fatal complications prior to this. I must say, had we got there any later and nobody had applied pressure to the wound, Dr Watson would definitely have bleed out beyond saving. Despite the surgery going as well as could be hoped, there is still a long way to go as his body needs time to recover."

"That's...brilliant. Thank you. Can we see him?" Lestrade asks, smiling at her politely.

"Right this way, he'll likely sleep for a long while so don't be alarmed should it take him a fair few hours to wake up," she answers, kindly, showing them to a room in ICU, "I need to get to my other patients, but I'll be back soon to check his vitals."

"Thank you for your service," Mycroft says, nodding his head politely at her.

 

Sherlock pushes the door to John's room open, breath hitching slightly at the sight of John. He's never seen John look so small and vulnerable in the few years they've know each other, his pale skin is almost translucent in massive contrast to the lingering tan that is usually settled there. But this is not what Sherlock is focusing on. He can see the steady rise and fall of the other man's chest and hear the equally stead beat of his heart through the monitor. That's all that matters in that moment.

Moving a chair closer to the bed, Sherlock sits down silently to observe his sleeping friend, desperate to make sure he'll note any sign of problems before they get too bad to fix.

"I'm needed back at the Yard, Sherlock. I'll be back tomorrow. Text if you need anything, yeah?" Lestrade says, Sherlock can feel his eyes scanning his face to no doubt pin-point his feelings.

Sherlock nods, not removing his gaze from John's face as he speaks, "we'll give our statements as soon as we are able."

With that, Lestrade leaves. He knows Mycroft is still there, watching him, showing his 'concern' in anyway he knows how. Meddling.

"You can go, John's going to be fine," Sherlock comments, dismissively, fighting the urge to grab John's prone hand.

"You care about Dr Watson a great deal, Sherlock. That is not a disadvantage," Mycroft states, simply.

"I know," Sherlock answers, nodding his head, "but it made everything harder. I couldn't....I didn't know what to do and I should have done. If it had been anyone else, I would have known but...I was so scared of losing him."

"That doesn't matter now," Mycroft reminds him, nodding to the bed, "he's alive and you are a reason for that."

 

*******

 

The first thing John hears when he comes back to consciousness is the faint beeping of a heart monitor and the soft stead breaths of someone asleep nearby. He forces his sluggish eyes open, wincing as the lights assault his eyes. His throat feels dry when he goes to ask the other person, that is definitely Sherlock, what happened. Before he does though, it hits him. He was shot. Damn it.

"Sherlock..." John forces out past his dry throat.

The raven haired man shoots up at once, eyes alert and searching, "John! You're awake."

"Good...deduction, well done," John comments, swallowing thickly, "water?"

Sherlock nods at once, bringing a bowl of ice chips to him, "the nurses said this is better than water for after surgery, it controls your intake of water so you don't get sick."

John nods, taking one of the ice chunks and putting it in his mouth. He's silent until it's fully dissolved, "I know. Doctor, remember?"

Sherlock doesn't answer, he's staring at him as if he's scared he'll disappear. That's when it hits John. How scared must Sherlock have been to see him like that? He vaguely remembers snippets of their conversation but other than that it's mainly a blur. Sherlock himself looks exhausted and thinner than normal.

"When did you last eat?" John asks, wincing at the pain that shoots through him when he readjusts his position.

Sherlock looks started by the question.

"Whenever we ate together at home, just before we left if I remember rightly," Sherlock answers, furrowing his brow, "despite my reluctance."

"And how long have I been out?"

"Around 12 hours, 47 minutes and 28 seconds," Sherlock answers, eyeing the wall clock.

John wets his lips, "Sherlock, you need to eat."

Sherlock shrugs, unconcerned, "that's what Lestrade said and it didn't get him anywhere."

"Have you been here all this time? Christ, Sherlock, you've still got blood on your hands," John exclaims, noting the red tinged skin, "go and wash that off and eat something! You didn't need to be here every second."

Sherlock glares at him sharply, "oh I'm sorry I wasn't concerned about the state of my hands or my eating habits, when my best friend had just been shot and could have died."

John goes to retort, but stops short closing his eyes against the pain flaring suddenly in his chest. Sherlock is next to him in an instant.

"Are you alright? John? Should I get someone?"

John shakes his head, swallowing, "No, just give me a minute. How bad was it?"

"Nothing major was hit, just cut through the tissue in your chest. Narrowly missed your...your heart and your lungs. It'll hurt a lot for quite a while, the nurse said," Sherlock answers, looking down at his hands, "your heart stopped on the journey here but obviously..."

"Sherlock, are you okay?" John asks, softly, scanning Sherlock's face for answers, "you haven't been alone all the time, Lestrade was here, yeah? Mycroft? You called him, I remember that."

Sherlock nods slowly, "Mycroft was here until they said you would be alright. Then, well, I told him to leave. Lestrade's been in and out, had a lot on with Pitch and Lynce, apparently."

"You didn't answer my first question, are you okay? It must have been...hard, to see me like that."

"Yes, John, I'm quiet fine. You're alive, that's all that matters," Sherlock answers, but John is unconvinced, "and I'm...sorry. I miscalculated quite a bit and..."

John looks startled, "Sherlock, what are you sorry for? None of this is your fault, if anything _I_ should have been more careful. They were both armed and I misjudged what Lynce would do."

"We should have waited for Lestrade, like you said but I didn't expect...I didn't think...this would happen," Sherlock forces out, voice sounding strained, "this didn't need to happen... I didn't mean for this to happen."

"Sherlock, I know you didn't mean for this to happen. There's no need for you to blame yourself," John reassures, eyebrows furrowing in concern when Sherlock doesn't meet his eyes, "hey, look at me. Sherlock, Lynce and that Pitch guy, who ever he was, are the only ones at fault here. Do you understand? Not you. Despite what you might think, you can't prevent every bad thing from happening."

Sherlock offers him a small smile, "I was so...I don't know...I just didn't know what to do."

"Shock, Sherlock, a _normal_ human reaction," John reminds him, altering his position again pushing away the pain that shoots through him.

"That's never happened before..."

"I've never been shot in front of you before," John answers, simply, "and that's obviously different for some reason."

They fall into a comfortable silence, just resting and steadfastly avoiding thinking about the what ifs. John bites his lip, thinking for a few moments.

"You must have _known_ this would happen some time. Statistically, I mean. We get shot at at least once a fortnight, if not more. One of us was going to be shot sooner or later."

"Yes. But I didn't account for one factor."

"What factor?"

"That it could be you. I thought it would be me. I wanted it to be me not you."

 John feels a sudden urge to hug the detective as tightly as possible and would have if not for his smarting chest. Instead he just takes the detectives hand, holding it tightly against his chest with no plans to let it go any time soon. That's how they stay for a long while.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. I hope you liked it! Comments and kudos are always welcome and appreciated. Tell me what you think!


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